


The Devil Gives a Flying Dutchman

by Morningstarofnight



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels vs. Demons, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I'm Sorry, Lucifer Being a Dick, M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Devil Ships A/C, i mean what
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morningstarofnight/pseuds/Morningstarofnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the not-an-Apocalypse behind him, Crowley is back to his normal job. But not for long, because nothing good ever happened to a demon. Hell has new and significantly darker orders for him, and of course now is the time when Crowley’s heart decides to do a flip for his angelic friend. And the big bad King of Hell isn't going to like that…right?</p><p>[Still here, I have the remaining chapters all planned out, I have the ending scene written (first time I've written anything out of order, wow), all I need to now is...write the bits in the middle.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the King

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except the random OCs. Also, all of the quotes at the beginning of the chapters come from Paradise Lost. I don’t own that either. Please read on and leave comments if you wish! Feel free to ask questions.

_“His form had yet not lost_  
 _All her original brightness, nor appear'd_  
 _Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess_  
 _Of glory obscur'd.”  
_ ~Book I, Line 591

The day that dawned was yet another average day, partially cloudy with no expected rain, just dull dreariness. The planet didn’t seem to care that it had recently attempted yet another End of the World. Its inhabitants had all done a remarkable job of conveniently forgetting the whole mess, although they were left with the distinct feeling that whatever it was they couldn’t remember was rather important.

All except the few people who didn’t have the luxury of a human brain.

Crowley had gotten in the habit of placing plant misters in strategic places around his house. Sure, the Apocalypse had been averted, but that didn’t mean everyone was _happy_ about it. Every morning he kept expecting another demon to be grinning down at him with the full intent of dragging him back to Hell and an invigorating torture session. The fear had been starting to lessen until he’d received a report on what happened when Hastur went back. Lucifer hadn’t seemed to care about the information the demon had given him about Aziraphale. He’d been in a bad mood.

But the dreary days passed by like they always did. Crowley wiled, Aziraphale thwarted. No demons showed up at his door. He’d moved out of his old flat and into a slightly bigger one down the street anyway. Not that it would have stopped anyone from finding Crowley.

He met Aziraphale for lunch at a new little restaurant they’d found. It served excellent grilled sandwiches, which fought off the chill in the air quite nicely. Once they got their food, Aziraphale tucked in with a pleased smile on his face. Crowley sighed. Of course his friend wouldn’t be worried about anything like torture. Heaven didn’t usually go in for that sort of tactic.

“You’re usually more talkative than _this_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale observed after the silence persisted.

“Just hungry, that’s all.”

The angel set down his sandwich. “You’ve been staring at your plate for the past five minutes, my dear.”

Crowley opened his mouth to crank out a snappy comeback when he realized the crank was broken. He had a sentence formed in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to get the words out. Was today the day he would go home and find a different elegant black car parked where the Bentley should have been? He was almost positive the other demons could recognize it across the country, but nothing had happened to it yet.

“Crowley?”

He shook his head, picking up his own sandwich and taking a vicious bite out of it as if it offended him. Aziraphale watched him curiously, but eventually returned to his meal. “If you’re that stressed out about something, I recommend listening to music. I keep a radio turned on whenever—”

Crowley choked on a piece of ham. Panic shot across his face fast enough to win a gold medal. “No, no, no, no,” he chattered, unable to stop the repetition. “I really don’t think that would be a good idea.”

The arched eyebrow he received in response seemed to be confirming a suspicion rather than questioning. “How long has it been, Crowley? A month? You’re still worried they’re coming to get you.”

“No demon has ever messed up as badly as I have in the history of Hell,” he whispered. “First, I lost the Antichrist. Then, I killed Ligur, a Duke of Hell. And if Adam hadn’t changed who showed up at the end there, I would have been _challenging Lucifer himself_.”

“I thought His name was Satan, and Lucifer was one of the princes.”

“He’s bloody _both_ , Azzzziraphale!” Crowley hissed. His sunglasses inched down his nose, allowing Aziraphale to see that his usually completely slit-pupiled eyes had dilated like a cat’s in fear. “Don’t you remember?”

“No, can’t say that I do,” his friend said slowly. “All I remember is a cute—”

“Don’t call Him _cute_!” Crowley made a frantic arm movement.

“Cute,” Aziraphale said stubbornly, “curly blond-haired fledgling. _That_ was Lucifer, I know for sure. But then I kept hearing about Satan, and how he’d followed _Him_ and whatever name the Adversary had as an angel was scratched from the books or something. It was all very _confusing_ for us.” He gave Crowley a reproachful look, as if it was his fault.

The demon shoved his sunglasses back up. “Look, Satan and Lucifer are both names for the same person. You people call Him Satan because you don’t like admitting He was an angel,” he scoffed.

“Well, _some_ angels might.” Aziraphale wore a disgruntled expression. “I know _I_ don’t.”

Crowley sighed again. “I wasn’t referring to you specifically.” He combed a hand through his black hair, though all it did was make his hair reflect the stress he was feeling. “Anyway, the point is that I had my wings out and everything, ready to fight—”

“But you _didn’t_ fight Him!” Aziraphale insisted.

“Do you _know_ what happened to Hastur?” Crowley moaned. “The report only came in a week ago. Apparently he tried to weasel his way out of punishment by offering information on _you_ , and when that didn’t work…he said Lucifer was weak, that He was losing his touch, that clearly He wasn’t that great of a leader if He left something as important as the Antichrist in the hands of Crowley!”

For the first time, the angel sitting across from him paled. “Hastur mentioned you by name?”

“Of course he did.”

“…Oh. So I assume Hastur is probably on his way here now?”

“No, Lucifer ripped him apart because of what he said, and also because he failed to kill me.”

“…Oh.”

“Oh,” Crowley agreed. “Which means _He_ might be paying me a personal visit.”

Aziraphale looked down at his sandwich and swallowed hard. “So they told you. That’s how you know what happened, and that they’re coming for you.”

“Ngh,” he said. “It was a general report, gets sent out to all the demons up here. But it seemed to be implying…my imminent doom.”

“Well,” the angel said, though there was doubt in his voice, “maybe you only think it was implying that.”

“Mmf.” Crowley had stuffed his mouth with food.

* * *

The Bentley was still sitting parked outside his flat, and Crowley relaxed slightly. He went up the stairs and unlocked his door, carefully locking it behind him simply to make himself feel better. Both the sleek TV and radio sat in his living room. They were dark and silent, as Crowley had kept them for the past month. He knew if Hell really wanted to contact him, they wouldn’t necessarily need the electronics to be turned on, but again, it made him feel better to reduce the chances.

As the one bright spot, all of his houseplants were eagerly flourishing in an attempt to cheer up their harsh master. There weren’t any yellow or withered leaves to be seen, only verdant foliage. Crowley wearily went around misting them, muttering vaguely under his breath about how they’d better keep up the good work. However, the tactics he used on the plants were reminding him that whenever he was called back to Hell, he would most likely be treated like a weak sprout.

That thought really shouldn’t have crossed his mind.

Crowley felt something _pull_ at his very being, and the inside of his flat stretched out, houseplants rolling into long green streaks. The mister was still in his hand, and he clung to it for dear life as the summons dragged him down. Usually he could sense the power of whoever was summoning him, even if they were ranked above him, but this time he could sense nothing. Just the pull, as if Hell itself were calling him home.

Slowly, his surroundings changed, resolving into a massive room supported by thick black pillars. Silver-edged black drapes were wrapped around the structures, embroidered in their center with the emblem of the Underworld: the Tree of Life. Crowley had been deposited on a short flight of wide steps looking out across the room at the large set of double doors on the opposite side.

“Hello, Crowley,” said a voice from behind him.

Crowley slowly turned around, deciding that remaining on his hands and knees on the steps was the best plan of action when he realized where he was.

In front of him at the top of the steps— _dais_ , Crowley corrected himself—was a throne made of ebony wood, faintly inlaid with silver lines so that it seemed to catch the light and glow. Seated on it was a tall man with long blond hair, dressed in a matching suit and cloak of black trimmed with silver. He didn’t seem angry, but merely emitted a feeling of serene, almost angelic power. Crowley swallowed as he saw the strong resemblance to Adam Young in the structure of the man’s face, as well as the commanding look in his red eyes. They were the only clue to the man’s true inhuman nature based on his appearance. Crowley took a shuddering breath and carefully stood, posture still oozing respect.

And then a small thought worked its way into his brain.

_Ah, to Hell with it. I’m dead regardless._

Crowley gave a bloodcurdling scream and squirted Lucifer Morningstar in the face with his plant mister.


	2. New Orders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, this chapter kind of ran away from me and ended up being a little dark. I promise there will be A/C fluff and shenanigans eventually, but there is also a plot, so with that in mind prepare yourself for this chapter. Although I did manage to work in a tiny bit of fluff, it isn’t all that happy. And Good Omens doesn’t have much to say on Hell or how the demons address the Devil in person, so I’m taking quite a few liberties here.  
> *throws chapter at you and hides*

_“To be weak is miserable,_  
 _Doing or suffering.”  
_ ~Book I, Line 157

The screaming echoed off of the walls of the throne room, and Crowley continued squeezing the trigger on the plant mister until the thing was empty. When the demon finally stopped, breathing ragged, hand shaking, Lucifer stuck a pinky finger in his ear and wiggled a bit, as if checking to make sure his eardrum was still intact. The entire front of his blond bangs were plastered to his face, and water was dripping off of his chin, though the Devil didn’t seem too bothered by it.

“Are you quite finished?” he asked, crossing his legs.

“Er.” Crowley paused, considering that he had never really gotten a good look at his master and king. Now, standing only a few feet away, he looked…well, normal.

Flames suddenly engulfed Lucifer’s head, and when they died down, his hair and face were completely dry, all traces of water neatly evaporated.

Crowley mentally backtracked to scratch the normal part. “Er,” he said again. “You’re…not going to kill me, my Lord?” He hoped he didn’t sound as hopeful as he felt. The room was completely empty except for Lucifer and Crowley, which he wasn’t sure was a good or bad sign. If Lucifer was going to make an example out of him, surely he’d want an audience?

The Devil laughed, although it might have been a stretch to label it as such. It was more of a soft chuckle, hinting that he had the possibility to be genuinely amused in the future. “No, I’m not going to kill you.”

Wonderful. That meant Crowley was in for something _worse_.

“ _You_ are actually going to make yourself useful for once.”

Crowley emitted a small squeak.

“All of the souls you’ve been working on in your immediate area are in danger,” Lucifer said, and Crowley immediately stood up a little straighter. _What?_ All that work he put into tying up phone lines at lunchtime was _not_ going to go to waste. “One of the archangels is trying to purify all of those souls.”

Crowley twitched. That wasn’t good. If an archangel was personally involved, it must mean that Heaven was planning something big. Although what they could have up their sleeve after the Apocalypse, he wasn’t sure.

“You are correct in that line of thinking.”

“Er. I didn’t…say anything, my Lord.” He flinched as Lucifer stood up, although the elder demon was apparently only stretching.

The Devil laced his fingers together and pushed the palms of his hands outwards, cracking the knuckles. He yawned at his subject. “I know.”

“M’kay.”

“I’m honestly not planning on killing you, Crowley.”

He shivered as the king brushed past him, an aura of dark power and malice radiating from wherever he stood. Many demons found themselves transfixed by it and ended up basking in Lucifer’s presence. Now Crowley could understand why. He’d always thought they were just being good little leeches.

“What…do you need me to do, my Lord?” he asked cautiously.

Lucifer wandered aimlessly off the dais and to one side of the throne room. “Collect as many souls as you can before the angels get to them,” he said with a shrug.

Crowley froze. Collect the souls? Personally? Surely there couldn’t be that many ready to be claimed for Hell?

“No, you’re going to have to steal the souls from them early. If you want to be humane about it, kill them first.”

“But—my Lord, why—?” he clamped his mouth shut, but the fragmented sentence had already left. Lucifer’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Crowley suddenly found that the Devil was no longer a safer distance away, but two inches from his face. He cut off a shriek before it could join the echoes of his previous screams. He was sure they were still bouncing around somewhere.

“You’re not really in a position to be questioning my motives,” Lucifer’s voice rumbled on in its low, threatening pitch. “I suggest you keep an eye on that angel friend of yours. He is just as much of a pawn in Heaven’s game as you are in mine, is that clear?”

The room spun, stretching out into meaningless streaks yet again as Lucifer sent him back to Earth. Crowley felt himself give a nod and a “yes, Lord” as horror spread through his entire body. _Lucifer knows my connection to Aziraphale_ , he remembered thinking, before his brain decided enough was enough and plunged into darkness just as the demon king added one last sentence.

“And Crowley…I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

When Crowley awoke, he was lying on the floor of his flat, bowing to the supreme Lord Houseplant. At the moment, he didn’t particularly care. He clutched the carpet and tried not to be sick. Throughout the whole exchange—Crowley knew he wasn’t that powerful of a demon, he wasn’t even a minor noble, but he was still something to be afraid of—he had been distinctly understanding of his own insignificance. Some part of his feeble little black heart firmly believed that if Lucifer so much as gestured at him the wrong way, it would cease its beating.

After a few careful breaths, Crowley got to his feet, blinking as his vision swam. Returning to Earth was always the more difficult passage. And at that moment the phone decided to ring, making him jump a foot in the air and hover for a minute before he remembered that humans tended to obey gravity.

“Hello?” he whimpered into the receiver.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s concerned voice answered.

“Ah, damn it.” He really didn’t want to talk to the angel right now, not after his audience with the king. Crowley’s eyes drifted closed as his brain firmly shut down once again.

As consciousness returned to him, he registered that he had been moved from his rather undignified position in a crumpled heap on the floor to his comfortable leather couch. Crowley gave a strangled mixture of shriek and sob as blond hair filled his view, but he blinked hard and breathed a massive sigh of relief as Aziraphale’s tousled head came into focus.

He still didn’t want to tell him anything.

“Crowley? What happened?”

“NGH!”

The angel frowned worriedly, sitting down on the couch. Crowley grasped his arm in a death grip and attempted to bury his face in Aziraphale’s elbow, his entire body shaking. He still wasn’t sure _why_ he was so terrified—maybe amazement at not being killed, maybe because of his new orders, maybe the fact that Lucifer _knew_ who Aziraphale was, maybe simply because he had never actually been that close to Lucifer before; the nearest he had come was a month ago, in those brief moments when the ground shook and fissures opened, ready for Hell to yawn wide open. At any rate, Aziraphale seemed to realize that something terribly wrong had happened, and moved to hug Crowley. He pushed his nose into his friend’s shoulder and breathed in the woolly, human scent of a knit sweater.

“How’dyoo…get in…anyway?” Crowley mumbled into the fabric.

Aziraphale awkwardly patted at the demon’s hair. “Miracled it open.”

Crowley huffed a tiny laugh. “That worried about me, hm angel?”

“You…didn’t sound good on the phone. And then I heard a thud, and you never said anything else, so…yes. Yes, you might say I was worried, my dear.”

He closed his eyes, concentrating on not hyperventilating. Not that the distressed breathing pattern would have a negative effect on him, since demons didn’t strictly speaking require oxygen, but the concentration helped calm him down.

“Can I at least get a short summary of what happened?”

“No.”

“One word?”

“Absolutely not.”

Aziraphale didn’t push him after that adamant reply, and for that Crowley was grateful. All he wanted at the moment was peace, quiet, and the assurance that someone out there cared about him.

“Are you going to be all right if I leave?” his friend asked after a while. “There’s some business I need to take care of at the bookshop.”

Crowley nodded, pulling away from the hug. “I’ll be fine. Just going to try and sleep,” he said, lying through his teeth. He knew sleep would be impossible, and at that moment made the gut-wrenching decision to get started on fulfilling his orders.

Aziraphale walked back to the door of the flat, casting one final glance over his shoulder before closing it behind him. Crowley couldn’t help but wonder if the “business” Aziraphale had to attend to involved talking to the Metatron. He shook his head sharply, glancing at the clock and sucking in another breath. It was time to move.

* * *

To his credit, so far Crowley had only thrown up twice. He hadn’t had to do this in centuries, and it was just as awful as he remembered it. It was worse, now that he thought about it. He’d had time to get even more attached to the human race, and increasingly more disgusted with the idea of killing them in such a horrific way.

Of course, he still had the belief that no demon was really all that evil when you took a look at them, except for perhaps Hastur and Ligur. And while Crowley had moved on a great deal from the days before his Arrangement with Aziraphale, that past had involved the demon forcing himself to adopt a truly evil personality simply to make it through his orders. That hadn’t been _him_ , though, he always told himself, and yet there was a part of him that—though he stamped down on it hard and tried to hide it—actually _liked_ what he was doing. It was the same part of his inner nature which had taken a malicious delight out of finally being able to douse Ligur in holy water.

Crowley groaned, wiping blood off of his cheek and resisting the urge to lick it. He was dressed in a completely different outfit than usual, with his hair covered by a convincing ginger-haired wig and no sunglasses. It really wouldn’t do for the human police to pick him out as a suspect; they would just get in the way of his work. Crowley stumbled to lean against the dumpster at the back of the alley, keeping to the shadows and trying to look like a normal human who was just drunk and down on his luck. Once someone came close enough to realize he had a snake’s eyes, however, it was a whole different story.

“Rough day?” grumbled a voice from _inside_ the dumpster. Crowley groaned again and clutched his stomach. “Eh, lemme get you a bag.” There were rustling sounds from the bin. He ignored Crowley’s frantic noises of refusal and “no no no it’s fine, I’m all right” and popped open the lid of the dumpster. A weathered old man with a scraggly beard climbed out, and stood close enough to Crowley for his eyes to widen in shock.

Crowley flinched as he saw the fear reflected in the man’s eyes, and he fumbled for a desperate apology. The human started to take a step back, and Crowley’s hand shot out, clutching his throat before he could give a shout for help. And the demon tore him apart, shredding skin eagerly and gulping mouthfuls of blood. Yellow eyes glittered as finally, the man’s body, if it could be called that any longer, began emitting glowing white trails of something akin to smoke. The demon reached out, grabbing the incorporeal as easily as if it were solid and swallowed that as well, sending the man’s soul to his master.

He swayed on his feet, tired and feeling disgustingly full. Crowley staggered off to the darkest, most secluded street he could find and from there made his way home, praying fervently—he wasn’t exactly sure to whom—that he wouldn’t meet any more humans that night.

* * *

“ _Crowley_ .”

“Mmf, go away, Aziraphale...stop breaking into my flat.” His eyes were squeezed shut, his nose wrinkled. Something smelled truly terrible.

“ _Crowley, what the Hell is going on_.” Aziraphale’s voice was shaking. Crowley’s eyes snapped open, and he looked over his shoulder, concern chasing away the last bits of sleepiness. Something had just made Aziraphale swear. That was not a good—

And then he realized what had just made Aziraphale swear.

“One. Word. Summary,” the angel managed through gritted teeth.

Crowley curled up into a tighter ball on the couch, closing his eyes again. His friend deserved more than one word. “Lucifer summoned me back to Hell Himself.” There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind him. “H-He said He’d…’be in touch’ again…” Crowley quivered, and gestured to himself and his dreadful appearance. “This is what my orders involved.”

When Crowley dared open his eyes again, the terrible smell was gone and Aziraphale had quietly left, after miracling away all of the blood. He gave a silent thanks to the angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I…am a truly terrible person and I don’t know what else to say. Note to self: NEVER, under any circumstances, am I to allow myself to stay up until 2am writing. Because apparently what comes out are 2000 words of pure sadistic author. I apologize profusely (I still maintain Hastur’s maggot scene in Good Omens is more disturbing) for this, but I felt it needed to be written. All I can say is that at least there was a slightly comforting A/C moment? Sorry.  
> Please don’t hate me. Feedback? If Crowley seemed too out of character, let me know, but I feel terrible because I think he stayed in character the whole time. I thought my way through Good Omens and picked out all the moments when Crowley has to face one of his higher-ups or thinks about what could happen to him (and also thought about reasons as to why Hell would even think Crowley had something to do with the Inquisition, since there’s no way he’s the only demon on Earth)...and…combined them…I’m so sorry.


	3. Suffering Arrangement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *happy author noises*
> 
> Awww I would like to send a shoutout to A Truly Delighted Anon and Happybbunny for deciding to comment! It means so much to me to hear that you’re liking the story as well as Crowley’s characterization. You people are wonderful, and to my anon friend, I hope you realize just what kind of special feeling it gives the author to see someone give their anonymous name a title like "Truly Delighted."
> 
> Okay, while there might be similar dark moments from this point on, there probably won’t be any more chapters that are just non-stop unhappiness fests.

_Satan exalted sat, by merit raised_  
 _To that bad eminence; and from despair_  
 _Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires_  
 _Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue_  
 _Vain war with heav'n.  
_ ~Book II, Line 5

Crowley spent most of the next day moping in his flat, even turning on the TV for the first time in a month. There really wasn’t a point to keeping it off anymore, now that he knew he wasn’t going to be killed. He had promptly incinerated that morning’s paper, and took care not to flip through any of the news channels on the television. A bland soap opera, complete with cheesy music, currently graced the screen. Crowley stared at it blankly, letting the trivial human drama fry his brain.

Outside, sunlight poured down on the city. The demon paced in front of his couch for a few hours, keeping up a running commentary on anything that crossed his mind. He jabbed fingers at the houseplants to punctuate each point.

“Why didn’t I stand up for myself, you ask? Why not invoke a challenge?” Crowley advanced on a hosta threateningly. “Things are different in Hell, that’s why!” He hesitated. That wasn’t much of answer. “Okay, fine, I’m not the bravest demon in the world. But before, I had Aziraphale with me. He’s the only other sane being I’ve met on this planet who can actually stick around for more than one century. Lucifer, on the other hand, is _completely_ insane—”

“Oh dear, is he really?”

“Yes, he wants me to go on a damn killing spree and I don’t even know _why_ ,” Crowley complained. And then paused. The houseplants generally didn’t answer back. His throat closed off, and he stopped in his tracks. Clearly he was just hearing things because of his stress. That was it. All he had to do was get a hold of himself and prompt the air with a question. And of course there was _no way_ the empty air was going to answer.

“My Lord?” Crowley whispered.

“Yes?”

* * *

There was one restaurant Crowley had tried time and again to get into, but for some reason no amount of magical demon trickery could convince the workers that he had a reservation. He had even tried calling ahead like a good little human, but apparently you had to know the manager. So Crowley had called the manager and attempted to persuade him to believe that he had a long-lost childhood friend who was quite eager to visit his esteemed establishment.

Apparently the manager had a falling-out with the aforementioned childhood friend years previously and never spoke to him again.

Within seconds of arriving at the fancy five-star gourmet _Sorpresa del Diablo_ , the manager himself rushed out to greet his most esteemed guest. “Good afternoon, Mr. Morrow, always nice to have you, we just couldn’t have set this place up without your gracious donation,” he rambled, pumping Lucifer’s hand energetically. Then, turning to Crowley, his eyes unfocused and glazed over for a minute, before the demon found himself on the receiving end of the formidable handshake. “And you as well, Mr. Crowley, always nice to have you.”

And that was how Crowley found himself sitting across a secluded table from his king, fervently wishing to be on Voyager 2.

Lucifer had changed his eye color to a warm brown, and was wearing a neat black dress suit and silver tie. His blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, fastened in the old-fashioned manner of a large ribbon, also black. The menu hid his face, but Crowley could imagine the calm expression it carried.

The waiter swept by and took their orders. Crowley numbly asked for something and instantly forgot what the dish was as the waiter turned to Lucifer. The king smiled at the man and said something which sounded like “pie camera,” but Crowley had the sneaking suspicion that wasn’t what the actual words were.

Once the human was gone, Crowley decided to attempt conversation. “Er…it’s rather unusual to see you here.”

Lucifer blinked at him.

“My Lord,” he added automatically.

“Oh, none of _that_ will be necessary.” The Devil dismissed him with a casual wave. “Formalities are all fine back home, but that’s where they belong.”

“Oh.”

“Was there something you wanted to ask me, Crowley?”

“Right,” the demon mumbled, and made an effort to sit up straight and not fidget. “You, er, haven’t mentioned what I said earlier. Is that a good thing?”

“If you wish to interpret it as such.”

Crowley swallowed a large amount of the wine in his glass. “Is there any particular reason you’re here?”

Lucifer picked apart one of the rolls provided as an appetizer and dipped a piece in olive oil. “You don’t seem to be handling your orders well, mentally speaking. I was concerned.”

His jaw dropped. _Concerned?_ The most powerful demon on the planet was concerned about _him?_ “No, sir,” he said, a wretched look settling down in his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.” He didn’t even try to come up with an excuse. Hell didn’t really care about excuses. But then…he had been under the impression that Hell didn’t really care _at all_ about him, except when he made trouble.

An undignified snort made him recoil. “Don’t apologize for something like that,” Lucifer answered. “And—what the Hell did you order?”

The waiter had returned with their food. Crowley stared at the plate that had been set down in front of him. “Octopus…?”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Um, it might be kraken, actually. I just ordered the first thing I saw.”

Lucifer sighed, as if that was the explanation for why he never left his house. “Crowley, my orders are not meant to be a twisted punishment for you.”

“Really? They sure seem like it,” Crowley snapped testily, and then blanched as his words rebounded and hit him in the face like a freshly caught octopus. Lucifer was looking at him with amusement, fork raised halfway to his mouth.

“You seem to have a rather unfortunate timing for bravery.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Anyway, this isn’t just happening here,” he gestured at the windows “there’s an archangel stationed in New York, Moscow, Sydney…most of them are just being the general nuisances they always are.” Crowley twitched. Most people would not refer to an archangel as a “general nuisance.”

“However, as I told you, one of them has started a large-scale purification of all the souls in its designated city. We haven’t been able to figure out _why_ ,” Lucifer shot him a pointed look, “but obviously they aren’t playing around. Whatever Heaven is planning, it can’t be good. Angels receive a heightened power in the presence of so many pure souls, and as such are able to use that to their advantage against us.”

Slow dread crawled down Crowley’s spine, the sensation of a cold cephalopod draping a tentacle over his back. That implied a true battle was on the way, not the casual wiling and thwarting game he had played with Aziraphale. “They didn’t get their Apocalypse, so they’re trying a different tactic?” he asked, bitterness lacing the words.

“Apparently.”

“And…my orders?”

“The less souls Heaven can purify, the better.”

And Lucifer vanished, leaving behind a perfectly calculated and paid bill which floated gently to the surface of the table.

* * *

Crowley spent the remainder of the day in a daze at the fact that the Devil had treated him to dinner. In the morning, after taking a shower purely to get the  _sensation_ of blood off of skin, he found that he was still marveling at the occurrence. It was something even Aziraphale would marvel—no, perhaps not. He hadn’t tried to call the angel yet. Perhaps it was best if, for now, they simply stuck to their own sides of the coin.

Driving faster than was technically possible down Oxford Street, Crowley attempted to find something else to concentrate on besides what Heaven’s plans meant for the Arrangement. He still didn’t particularly want to turn on the radio, but he didn’t think it would help anyway. Eventually he stopped driving in circles and went home. This time he checked carefully behind every potted plant and piece of furniture in the flat.

In the end, it was Aziraphale who called him.

“Crowley?” The voice was worryingly hesitant, and he cringed, but spoke into the receiver to confirm that he was there.

“Oh good, I thought—well, never mind exactly what I thought. You said…that you had received new orders?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, letting quiet settle first.

“Well, my dear…so have I.”

There was an odd feeling somewhere in Crowley’s body, almost like his stomach rolling over, but it didn’t seem like it was in the right spot. _Of course_ , the demon thought. _We can’t pretend to be neutral anymore. Not right now._

“The Metatron contacted me, and, er. Well.”

“What’s happening, Aziraphale?”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“…I…you know I can’t tell you, Crowley.”

He nodded, even though the angel couldn’t see him. That was what he expected. Aziraphale was a part of whatever Heaven had in store. “And the Arrangement?” To not question too highly into the other’s position on the chessboard, to meddle just enough to balance the other’s actions. To, in general, call the other friend.

“It might not work this time.” Aziraphale sadly let that sink in. “But…I’m not saying we have to get rid of it entirely.”

Crowley’s spirits lifted considerably at the slight hope in the angel’s voice. He figured that it was just because everything seemed to be going wrong recently, so the mere possibility that Aziraphale thought their friendship could continue despite this battle was something welcome. “Lunch?” he prompted.

He still wasn’t sure why he felt happier than usual when Aziraphale agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering what the restaurant’s name is, Sorpresa del Diablo means “Devil’s Treat” (as in treating someone to dinner) in Spanish. And for those of you even more interested in what Lucifer actually ordered, “pie camera” is what Crowley gets out of Lucifer saying “paella camarón” (shrimp paella). The restaurant itself probably serves a vague mixture of fancy food from various countries.


	4. Those Who Trespass Against Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, I will be switching to weekly updates now that the story is under way. I wanted to make sure I have this schedule solidified before I go off to college, in which case I would probably only be able to post on the weekends anyway, so may as well get used to that.

_“With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout,_  
 _Confusion worse confounded.”  
_ ~Book II, Line 995

An odd sort of schedule soon developed. Crowley couldn’t even take a guess at what Aziraphale was doing, but he assumed it must be in almost direct opposition to his own work. The demon found that the 24-hour gas station food was actually rather enjoyable at three in the morning, particularly if Aziraphale coincidentally happened to be there at the same time. The two friends never asked each other exactly _why_ they had both been wandering the streets at that time; the employee working the late shift liked to entertain a variety of ideas, each more creative than the last. He would have been shocked to learn that one of them was true.

They never brought their food over to Crowley’s flat or Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel made excuses, muttering that there was something of a mess in the back room, and Crowley merely answered by saying that his flat was no better off. So they usually sat on a bench outside the gas station, both of them warming up their fingers on plastic mugs of hot chocolate and talking in low voices which only succeeded in throwing fuel onto the late-shift worker’s imagination.

“Crowley, have you been watching the news recently?”

“What? No, no, I haven’t. Why?” He gulped a scorching mouthful from his cup and tried not to look guilty.

“Well…you might want to be a bit more careful, my dear.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale’s expression was equal parts disapproval and worry, but he didn’t go any further with the subject. Crowley burned his throat on the chocolate some more. The angel was only sipping at his, shooting nervous glances to the side. Beyond the lights from the gas station, the darkness lay in thick pools. Several pairs of eyes were watching the two beings on the bench from the safety of those shadows.

_Crawleeeee, what’s taking so long?_

Crowley yelped as the voice registered only in his head. Aziraphale looked at him. “Nothing, nothing, just burned my tongue,” he mumbled, hoping his friend wouldn’t point out that it had hardly been an exclamation of pain.

_Could you just hold on a second? I’m_ working _on it_ , he answered back, clenching his jaw.

“So,” he said aloud with a nervous chuckle. “Feel like telling me your secret plans?”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale warned.

“Sorry, sorry. Can’t blame a demon for trying, right?”

_See? He’s not going to talk_.

Something growled, low and menacing, and Aziraphale looked around in alarm. “What was that?”

“Nobody—I mean, nothing,” Crowley said quickly. “Uh, gotta go, see you around.” He chucked the rest of his hot chocolate into a nearby trash can and took off in the opposite direction of those glowing eyes. Naturally, they caught up with him around the corner, two more demons with hostile yellow glares. The bigger one, sporting a villainous black mustache Crowley was embarrassed to be seen next to, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck before he could dodge.

“Crowley, that is _not_ what was supposed to happen,” it snarled.

“Oh, hello, lord Dagon, fancy seeing you here.” Crowley attempted a weak smile. His superior treated him to an expression that would have been better placed on an anglerfish.

“Boss, I don’t think that one would have cracked anyway,” complained the other demon, a muscular brown-haired figure whose face suggested that he had much better things he could be doing at night. “He might be friends with a sorry excuse for a demon, but he’s not a sorry excuse for an angel.”

“Shut up, Belial,” Dagon ordered, and then turned and practically spat his question in Crowley’s face. “ _Well?_ ”

He flinched. “Er, what Belial said. It was pointless anyway.” Crowley held his breath, hoping Dagon would drop the subject. Over the past week, the demon had been contentedly communicating additional orders to Crowley via Freddie Mercury from the safety of his office. Though his superior hadn’t mentioned the precise reason why he had decided to join them on Earth, there was the implication that Lucifer had something to do with it.

The result had been an extremely grumpy demon.

Dagon’s features twisted into a truly terrible grin. “I suppose we’ll just have to collect a few extra souls to please Him, won’t we? And by we I mean you and Belial.” Of course the Lord of the Files didn’t plan on getting his hands dirty.

Belial pouted, but when Dagon didn’t budge from his spot on the sidewalk, he poked Crowley in the side and slouched off down the street, keeping out of reach of the light. Sighing, Crowley followed him. Belial, unlike his superior, had been hanging around Crowley’s flat all week and generally trying to proclaim himself as his best friend while simultaneously insulting everything Crowley owned.

The two demons slunk past the mostly darkened windows of office buildings in the heart of London. Plenty were still lit, although Crowley privately wondered who had the misfortune of working a desk job this late, or rather early. He nervously walked a little quicker to catch up with Belial, who didn’t seem perturbed by the fact that they weren’t heading for any of the more questionable areas of the city.

“Uh, Belial?” he asked. “The angel kind of had a point when he told me to be careful. Humans are starting to notice and, er, panic.”

Belial replied by dropping into a bar and luring out two people. An excessively drunk woman attached herself to Crowley’s arm, and he shifted uncomfortably. He was startled to come to the understanding that the only person he found amusing while drunk was Aziraphale. Humans didn’t have the same endearing quality as an angel trying to have a serious discussion about righteousness while intoxicated. Despite making various attempts to shake off the woman, Crowley found room to be delighted at the fact that Belial seemed much more uncomfortable with the forty-something guy currently quoting a Shakespearean sonnet at him.

“Shall I compare thee to a, a, summer’s day?” the man queried.

“No.”

“Thou art more lovely an’,” he hesitated before plowing forward, “an’ somethin’ better than a bloody summer’s day.”

“Temperate?” Crowley suggested.

Belial shot him a pleading look. “Don’t encourage it.” The other demon hurried his pace, weaving down the roads until he found a suitable discreet alleyway. Crowley’s face must have given away his queasiness, for Belial rolled his eyes and shoved the human away from him, dropping into a strangely thoughtful crouch. He surveyed the man, who had made it through the fourth line and was still going strong. And then he pounced. Crowley stopped himself from shutting his eyes; hearing the sound alone would be worse. Belial had changed into something rather disgusting, a sort of man-shaped lump of squirming creepiness. The creature wrapped around the man, dissolving and chewing away everything it could, absorbing the soul as it appeared. Crowley had to admit it was a much cleaner kill than what he had been doing, but becoming _that_ form was not something he enjoyed.

Turning to his own human, he took a deep lungful of air and raked a hand across her throat. Blood poured out, and Crowley leaned forward, drinking simply to give the liquid somewhere to go besides all over his clothes. Her screams came out as gurgles, and soon stopped altogether, her body going slack as her own soul left her. Crowley gagged and stumbled backwards as soon as he could. Trembling slightly, he pressed himself against the opposite wall, treating Belial’s now human appearance to a glare that dared him to comment.

“Y’know, for the human-loving demon that you are, you sure—”

“Don’t you sssssay another damn word,” the serpent hissed.

“Geez, talk about sensitive. Guess we’d better report back to Dagon, then.” Belial yawned and wiped his mouth. He trotted off down the street, but paused after a minute and looked back at Crowley. “Oh, all right, _fine_ ,” he sighed, and snapped his fingers. The remains burst into flame.

Crowley nodded, mute, and followed Belial back to where Dagon was waiting on a bench reading a newspaper. Hell’s unsympathetic bureaucrat looked them up and down, curling his lip at Crowley’s bloody attire. “Must you always make such a mess? It’s much cleaner if you use your true form.”

“Says the person who wouldn’t really know,” Crowley snorted.

“Crowley…”

“Ah, come off it, boss, it’s not like you care about how it’s done, so long as they’re dead and their souls are ours.” Dagon blinked at Belial, shock passing over his face for a minute before he was suddenly right next to the younger demon, cuffing him over the head.

“…Thank you,” Crowley said quietly once Dagon was a safe distance ahead, growling about the youth of today under his breath as he stalked off into the darkness.

“Mention it to anyone, and I’ll burn all your houseplants.”

* * *

Lunch with Aziraphale the next day was quite the competition for most compelling silence. Crowley spent as much time as he could carefully chewing each bite of fluffy angel food cake, while his friend was experimenting with how much salad he could politely shove into his mouth. Eventually, though, one of them had to crack. And it wasn’t going to be Crowley.

Aziraphale fit in a few more croutons and chewed, eyes boring into the demon’s sunglasses.

“Er,” Crowley said, giving in. “Uh, about yester—this morning, rather.”

The angel examined him over the top of his wineglass.

“No…comments? Questions?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “Just…let’s enjoy our lunch peacefully, before we all go to Hell, hm, my dear?”

It wasn’t precisely the simple fact that Aziraphale had made such a casual swear which made Crowley stop still. It was the whole sentence which lead up to it. He couldn’t possibly be implying…? “Aziraphale, what is that supposed to mean?” he asked slowly.

Aziraphale had re-entered the silence competition.

_Before_ we _all go to Hell?_

When they left the Ritz, that thought kept repeating in Crowley’s head. An angel making that kind of comment…it couldn’t be just simple talk about the orders they had received most likely pitting them against each other. There was something else lurking in what his friend had said, he just _knew_ it. Did Aziraphale think Hell would _win_ this fight, or whatever it was? If the morale in Heaven was that bad, Crowley was glad he left.

* * *

The entire living room in Crowley’s flat had been commandeered upon Belial’s arrival. In the week since then, the demon had slowly become one with the sofa rather than going out during the day and mingling with humans. His continuous presence irked Crowley to no end; and yet, he found himself thinking that it would be infinitely better if Belial was exchanged for Aziraphale. Worse, Belial had taken to drinking hot cocoa in the evenings. Whenever Crowley walked in the room, the smell of it made him look up in hope, but his chest always tightened regretfully. Belial was wisely staying silent if he had even noticed the pattern of excitement and disappointment. He’d managed to explain the Arrangement to both Belial and Dagon as something not quite as friendly as it had become; that kind of thing could get a demon in trouble, actually being friends with an angel and not doing his very best to manipulate that friendship for Hell’s benefit.

Now that “strictly business” friendship was interfering with him opening his mouth and telling the couch potato demon in his flat about what Aziraphale had said. Belial was munching on a bag of crisps, completely stretched out on Crowley’s nice leather sofa with a nature documentary— _Planet Earth_ , he guessed—on the television. “Hiya, Crawly,” he mumbled through a full mouth when he walked in.

“I prefer Crowley.”

“Whatever.” Belial tossed another crisp down his gullet. “The boss went back home to file the report, so I’m sure he’ll be contacting us any second now to complai—”

_CROWLEY. BELIAL,_ David Attenborough interrupted his description of a great white shark hunting seals to bring the message through.

“Ah, see, there he is now. What’s up, boss?”

_BOTH OF YOU GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW. THERE’S BEEN A SECURITY BREACH._

“ _What?!_ ” Crowley and Belial cried at the same time. Hell prided itself—well, Hell prided itself on just about _anything_ , considering who was in charge—on its security. With an eternal enemy metaphysically hovering overhead and lots of humans who were more curious than could possibly be good for them, it was necessary. In six thousand years, not even a rat could get through without providing documentation that it had ten generations of suitably evil predecessors. There had _never_ been a security breach.

_JUST GET DOWN HERE, FRONT ENTRANCE, MAIN ROAD. BACKUP IS ALREADY ON THE WAY. THERE IS AN ANGEL IN HELL, AND IT DIDN’T FALL TO GET THERE._

Belial gestured the TV off with a panicky motion and vanished in a cloud of sulfur, Crowley right behind him. When his surroundings solidified, they were deposited on a long, icy road, lined by life-size frozen statues of door-to-door salesman, in various agonized facial expressions. Usually, Crowley would have taken time to admire them, but up ahead, there was a commotion which drew his attention, adding speed to his feet.

Over his life as a demon, he hadn’t really spent that much time in Hell itself, preferring the far more interesting human world, but he knew he could always count on the old place. Despite the fact that he was pretty sure the house he had in the Underworld was infested with giant spiders, Hell was still _home_ , it was supposed to be _safe_ from any rampaging avenging angels.

“What…is going on?” Crowley panted, more out of habit than necessity, as he caught up to the group of demons who had surrounded the intruder.

“An angel broke through the barriers, we didn’t even _know_ until King Lucifer contacted us directly,” one of them said. “Probably sent here to spy, scope out the area, that kind of thing.”

And just like that, Crowley’s thoughts flew to Aziraphale’s comment. _Let’s enjoy our lunch peacefully, before we all go to Hell._

_Before_ we _all go to Hell._

And then it clicked. He’d been emphasizing the wrong word in the sentence.

_Before we_ all _go to Hell._

The angels were planning a mass attack on Hell itself.

The crowd of demon guards hadn’t even cleared enough, and Crowley had a terrible feeling that he knew who would be in the middle. Even preparing himself in advance, repeating the name over and over in his head, when he caught sight of the angel spy, it still hit him hard in the chest. Not the gut, he half-realized in one corner of his brain. His _heart_. And distantly, distantly, he found himself thinking, _Wait, I’m a demon, that’s not supposed to happen. We aren’t supposed to_ feel _things like that, no_ —

—And then he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from screaming his friend’s name.

_Aziraphale!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, how could I just leave it like that? I’m so evil. Guess you’ll just have to leave a comment to let me know how much you hate cliffhangers. At least I made this chapter good and long for you, it’s around 2500 words.
> 
> In all seriousness, let me know what you think of this chapter, as well as previous ones! Feedback is a welcome sight as well as ego fuel!


	5. Wonders of Imagination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And look at me, updating on time and everything! Happy Saturday, everyone.

_“Long is the way_  
 _And hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light.”_  
~Book II, Line 432

Everything passed in a haze. The part of his mind that had been focusing on the task at hand had now become distant; it vaguely observed the demons bustling everywhere, carting away their new prisoner. But at the forefront of Crowley’s mind was a name, repeated into meaninglessness: _Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale_. My _Aziraphale_. That thought seemed so natural. The angel had practically been by his side for the past six thousand years, conveniently showing up in the same places as Crowley. And Crowley had actually looked forward to seeing him every single time. His angel. His odd, fascinating friend who was always more than a few steps behind that century’s fashion. All this time, he had never _realized_ —all those times he had told Aziraphale not to get discorporated because it would be boring on Earth without him, had that actually been…?

Oh Go—Sa—Milton Keynes.

He really did actually _love_ the blessed angel. And he always had.

Why did he have to realize this _now?_

“Crowley? You all right?” It was Belial’s voice, tinged with curiosity. “You haven’t moved for a while. I went with the others, and when I came back you were still here. That was over an hour ago.”

“I’m, er, I’m fine.”

The other demon looked doubtful, but he silently started to move away. Crowley watched him go, mind still scattered and alternately being full of amazement and horror at its new revelation. And as usual, it suddenly all flew back together with a stunning idea to get himself killed.

“Wait!” he called, running to catch up with Belial and grabbing his arm. “You said you went with the rest of them? Where did they take the spy?”

“That old warehouse off Wormwood Street.” Belial shrugged. “There really aren’t any angel-proof dungeons, y’know? It was the best they could do. Lucifer himself showed up and made a containment circle, so I don’t think he’ll be getting out anytime soon, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Crowley carefully kept his face calm. “No, that wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“Had any other demon drawn that containment circle, someone might’ve let him out by now,” he laughed. “For whatever price they could squeeze out of him.”

That idea of Crowley’s remained, but it now had a 99.9% chance of complete and utter failure, horrible torture, and eventual death.

* * *

As he walked down Wormwood Street, Crowley started up a new mantra under his breath:  _Million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten, million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten…_

Upon reaching the warehouse, his nerves made a bid for freedom. Ten guards were posted outside, and every single one of them had their eyes on Crowley. “Er. Hi? I’d like to see the prisoner?”

One of the guards snorted like a bull. “What, you? Lucifer gave _you_ permission?”

“Um, yes, of course.” The words were out of Crowley’s mouth before he could stop them. “The angel thinks he’s my friend, see.” The serpent added a wicked smile, albeit weakly, but it made the guards answer with equally wicked laughs.

“Very good. It makes sense, but then again, you could be lying. And Lucifer would know if you were.” Crowley stared at the guard. Lucifer wasn’t an omniscient being. Most demons _knew_ that. He decided it was best not to point that out.

“What, the Father of Lies? I don’t think he’d mind.”

Another guard stepped forward, and Crowley was afraid he might be going to attack and chase him off, but he merely leaned against the wall of the warehouse and smiled at him, as if amused by his antics. Crowley swallowed and held his breath, waiting for the verdict from the one who was apparently in charge.

“Go on, then,” the guard sighed. “Do whatever Lucifer deemed necessary, I suppose.”

Crowley walked past him, carefully entering the warehouse and shutting the door behind him. In the middle of the floor was a large circle chalked onto the ground, all sorts of squiggly sigils and markings reinforcing the edges. Aziraphale was sitting cross-legged in the middle and was, surprisingly, reading a book.

“Er. Hello, Aziraphale.”

The angel looked up. “Crowley.” There was a wariness to that voice which pained him to hear. What had Lucifer told him when he locked the angel in here? Nothing good, for sure.

“…Where’d that book come from?”

“My pocket.”

Of all the things Aziraphale would pick to have at his side on a spying mission to Hell, he chose a book. Crowley wasn’t sure what to do with that information. Was he supposed to punch him for being stupid, or congratulate him for being himself?

Crowley cleared his throat, darting his eyes away so he wouldn’t be staring at his friend. “Uh…I’m getting you out of here.”

That got Aziraphale’s full attention. He stood up, the book vanishing into an inner pocket of his jacket. “ _How?_ ”

“Million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten,” Crowley breathed, and leaned over, scratching at the edge of the containment circle to break it. “Come on, angel.” He pulled Aziraphale out of the circle and trapped his arms behind his back in a death grip.

Despite the heady rush of adrenaline coursing through his brain, Crowley still flinched when all ten of those guards leveled magically charged spears straight at his chest when he opened the door with Aziraphale in tow.

“ _What_ do you think you are _doing_ , Crowley?” the head of the guards demanded, jabbing his spear a little too close for comfort.

The demon sucked in a breath and looked the other dead in the eye. “Lucifer’s orders. The angel’s to be marched to Castle Pandemonium for personal questioning.” Aziraphale shot him an alarmed glance, which hopefully helped the deception.

“Oh, really? How convenient of him to send a _‘friend’_ of the angel’s, then.”

“Yes, yes it is. Makes for much less struggling that way.”

The guard moved his spear under Crowley’s throat. A tingle of magic tickled his nose, and Crowley’s mantra rapidly changed to _Do not sneeze donotsneezedonoteventhinkofsneezingohshi_ —“And do you know what will happen to you for treason?”

“It’s not treason,” Crowley said stubbornly. “And do _you_ know what will happen to you _when_ Lucifer finds out that you tried to stop me from fulfilling his rather direct orders?”

There was a hesitation, a flicker of fear in all of the guard’s eyes as they considered that. Luckily for Crowley, he didn’t exactly need to be clear on the details. Their own imaginations would populate their minds with images of tortures worthy of something humanity could create. And what an imagination that was. One of the guards, however, merely looked thoughtful. He hadn’t moved his spear one inch, and Crowley realized that it was the same one who had given him that sly smile. _That one could be a problem_ , Crowley was thinking, when the guard in question lifted his spear and walked away, going back to lean against the wall. The other guards looked at him uncertainly, and then back at their leader.

“Fine. Take him and get out of here if it means we can all get back to our normal work,” he growled, and blessedly took his spear away from Crowley’s vicinity.

Taking care not to walk unusually quickly, the demon nevertheless rapidly moved Aziraphale away from that place, supposedly towards Castle Pandemonium. However, on the road there, Crowley turned and looked at his friend. “Don’t do that again,” he said, and snapped his fingers.

The figures vanished in a puff of sulfuric smoke.

* * *

The rest of the guards had dispersed, but one remained, idly picking at the edge of his spear, seemingly unbothered by the crackling magical energy surrounding it. Sparks merely moved off of the weapon and onto the demon’s arm, lapping at his clothing before fizzling out.

The whole situation, he considered, was quite laughable. How easily demons could be tricked by even the serpent. It is said that the serpent was craftier than all the creatures that had been Made. Lucifer thought that was giving the serpent a little too much credit.

But the Devil had let them leave, because he had sensed something emanating from Crowley which was honestly rather puzzling. A…feeling, of sorts. He couldn’t quite place it—his angelic talents had faded considerably, though some remained—but he thought it worthwhile. It would be interesting to watch, at the very least.

And Lucifer smiled, reverting from the appearance of a humble guard to a man in black and silver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Lucifer knows, sort of. See you next week, and don’t forget to leave a comment or kudos! This chapter came out a little shorter than I expected, but considering the fact that Aziraphale’s capture isn’t actually a main feature of the story besides garnering Lucifer’s interest…well.


	6. Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I move in to college next week! Quite exciting! I’ll make sure I have that chapter ready well in advance, so I won’t be caught trying to type it up in the middle of all that mayhem. Unlike what happened today, when I had a party to deal with. Anyway, hope you like this chapter! Feel free to leave a comment or kudos at the end.

_“Now conscience wakes despair_  
 _That slumbered, wakes the bitter memory_  
 _Of what he was, what is, and what must be.”  
_ ~Book IV, Line 23

The days following Aziraphale’s escape, Crowley mainly stayed in his flat, once again waiting for the final call home. There was a difference, however, and that was the calm. Belial was still hanging around, but he had been curiously silent on the subject of the angel’s disappearance. Crowley simply watched him from where he stood leaning against the wall, eyes moving to track the other demon as he got up and paced, crunching on something vaguely edible. Neither of them really spoke to each other besides an occasional non-committal “mmf,” to indicate the dawn. That should have made Crowley uneasy—Belial never missed a chance to talk his brain out of his ears—but strangely, the feeling wouldn’t come to him. Through the haze that was his mind, Crowley could really only register one emotion. It was always the same, though it switched between elation and fear—and not for his own life. And then whenever the phone rang, whatever he felt at that time heightened in anticipation, pleased to hear the musical tones of an angel echoing on the other end.

Belial didn’t show any sign of noticing that the angel who called was the same one as before, or that it was indeed an angel at all.

“I’m off to lunch with Aziraphale,” Crowley said, testing out the name on his demon colleague. Belial merely nodded and kept chowing down on junk food, as if this was the most normal sentence in the world. That should have made him exceptionally worried. But he left his flat with a lighter step and the understanding that Aziraphale was on Earth.

It was a curious thing for a demon to feel, love. Unlike humans, it wasn’t a sudden infatuation and attraction, fading into lasting elements of a bond. Crowley felt an odd wonder at the contemplation of Aziraphale’s existence. Like _yes, this person exists_ , and nothing else was required for that to be amazing. He didn’t wonder at the fact that his life would be different without Aziraphale, or how such a perfect person could be alive; it wasn’t even a constant amazement at the fact that the angel was _still_ alive. Only—

_Yes. He exists._

A confirmation. An understanding. Knowledge that gave Crowley an overwhelming sensation of calm. He had no reason to fear for his own life, or worry over opinions. Sometimes he felt a slight desire, simply to be near this person who existed. Fear came only from the idea that this person’s existence might end. Not that Crowley would be separated from him, but that there would _no longer be_ a person who exists.

With that running through his head, Crowley met Aziraphale at the Ritz, taking his seat and commenting that he’d better not get used to it, this miraculous rescue thing.

“I’m more concerned for _you_ , dear,” the angel murmured. He worried the edge of his cake with a fork. “They have to know, don’t they?”

A thrill ran through the demon. Had Aziraphale always called him that? True, Crowley called him angel, but that was what he _was_. “Yes, well, I’m not,” he said with a shrug. “Lucifer knowsss where I am. And that I’m friendsss with you.” The sibilance dropped off of his tongue without a thought.

Aziraphale cast a nervous look around the restaurant. “Careful, Crowley.” Then he paused, and stared hard at the demon. “Are you _sure_ you’re not worried? You’ve been acting a bit...”

“What? No, I’m just—look, there’d be no point to feeling afraid. If Lucifer cared enough about your escape to bother, I’d already be screaming.” Crowley waved a hand in the air, a sudden hint of panic breaking through his calm. The last thing he needed was the angel figuring out he was in _love_. He wanted to have a chance to get used to the novelty of the emotion first, try to understand how it was humans got through something similar all the time.

The angel sighed and settled back in his chair, dropping the subject to enjoy his meal. By the time they parted ways, Crowley had barely eaten anything from his plate, choosing instead to simply observe the existence of his Aziraphale.

* * *

Back at the flat, once again, Crowley should have been worried. Belial’s silence seemed even quieter, the other demon moving to keep various pieces of furniture in his path.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, finally dredging up some curiosity for the strange behavior.

Belial flinched and ducked into the kitchen.

And when the call came, as Crowley knew it would, suddenly all the fear that had been missing from his mind came flooding back. As Hell pulled him home, as the imposing black columns and cool dias materialized around him, he grabbed desperately at the first thought that crossed his mind: that he wouldn’t be so _scared_ if Aziraphale were with him, if it was just like that day in Tadfield when they stood side by side and unfolded their wings. But Aziraphale wasn’t there, and as Crowley looked up at the throne, his slit pupils dilated to wide slats behind his sunglasses, his horror solidified with the realization that Lucifer wasn’t there either. And if Lucifer wasn’t on his throne, that meant he was _somewhere else_.

Something grabbed Crowley from behind, lifting him up by his neck and hurling him off the steps. He didn’t have far to fall downwards, but the throw tossed him at least a dozen feet from the dias, and he skidded painfully against the stone floor. All around Crowley was blackness, the columns somehow still visible, rising from the gloom. The ceiling seemed to have vanished, and the demon was under the impression that he was now standing in the midst of ruins, only the columns and the dias and the throne remaining. That all of the world was gone.

And the blackness had a center. Crowley expected to look into the shadows and see the writhing shapes of tortured souls, but they just floated there like mist, lapping gently at the edges of reality, every tendril generating from a single source. That source now stood before the throne in full regalia, with long, dragon-like wings wrapped loosely around his shoulders and three sets of curved horns silhouetted against—nothing. There was nothing beyond the throne. Not even the far wall. Only Crowley and Lucifer, and whatever this world was that Lucifer had created.

The king stood there with such calm, such powerful grace, that Crowley questioned what had thrown him. Had it been Lucifer after all? Even with that display of rage, this calm was far more eerie. Crowley stood, and though he couldn’t see those eyes, he _knew_ they followed his movement. There was no anger to be felt, just quiet observation. And that terrified him. An angry person was predictable. You could tell what was coming from their tone and their stance. But this calm was the kind that could mask malice beyond anything anger could contrive.

So Crowley did what came naturally, as a fallen angel and as a servant of his king. Though some part of him hated the gesture, his fear drove him to it, and he dropped flat on his hands and knees, head pressed to the cool stone, chattering a mangled form of prayer under his breath.

“ _Crowley_.”

And that _voice_ , that voice which nearly wrenched a sob from him, echoing against whatever soul he had left. Cold and cruel and _old_ , old as the chaos from before the Beginning of the world. It spoke to him, resonating in every corner of his mind, knowing his every thought and answering it.

 _“He is an_ angel _, Crowley. There is nothing for you there. Your two kinds are preparing for war. What use is there for love? What use is there for hope? It will all fade and mix with other emotions in the end, and you will never have any chance of recovering it. I know the location of judgment, and I know the expression your face will bear on that day. It can change, of course, as all things do. And_ I _will make a few changes myself. The Devil does not care about love. I shall ensure that fact.”_

“Crowley?”

When he dared look up, he blinked. And blinked again. And a third time, to make damn sure Lucifer wasn’t warping his sight. There was no blackness, no inhuman silhouette. The walls of the palace were actually rather comforting, with side corridors leading off to other places. Lucifer was wearing a golden crown, with three sets of spikes curving off of it, imitating draconic horns. There was a cape draped over his shoulders, edged with silver. No wings. For lack of a better word, Crowley was confused. It was practically common knowledge that no, Lucifer wasn’t a god, so no, he wasn’t omniscient. He was just an exceptionally powerful demon. But what in the name of Heaven, Hell, and Earth _was_ _that_?

“Are you…all right?” The concern in his voice would almost have been touching, if Crowley actually trusted him. Still, he cautiously moved closer, standing but remaining crouched and cowering. Lucifer’s eyes almost looked out of focus, as if he were watching some scene play out right behind Crowley.

“I’m, er, I think I’m fine, my Lord.” He nearly asked what had just happened, but bit his tongue in time.

“I only called you here to talk. Personally, I don’t think he would have been a very _good_ spy, anyway.” Lucifer smirked and backed up a few paces, dropping lithely onto his throne with an elegantly crossed leg.

“Aaaah,” Crowley said. “Aaaaha. Aha. Ha. Ha. Yes. That. About that.”

“You certainly had the guards confused, I must say.”

“Er, yes, my Lord. I suppose so.”

“It was honestly rather amusing to watch.”

Crowley froze. The guard that hadn’t seemed too concerned with him. The one that had leaned against the wall, content with watching them leave. He swallowed hard. So he had blatantly lied in front of his king. Blatantly committed treason.

“Anything you’d like to say?”

Swaying on his feet, the demon took a breath. He may as well give him some bit of the truth. “He’s my friend, my Lord. I couldn’t…he’s not a very _good_ angel, just like I’m not a very good demon.” That was it. Let Lucifer know he was aware of his own incompetence. “I panicked. I thought you were going to torture him. I’m sorry, my Lord.”

“Okay.”

“ _OKAY?_ ” Crowley screeched. The echo ran off to join its friends from the last time Crowley had screamed in this building. “THAT’S _ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY_ ON THE MATTER?”

Lucifer stared at him, mouth twitching. “Yes. You may go now.”

Crowley stared back, gaping like a fish. He tried to complain, although what exactly he was trying to complain about he wasn’t sure.

“ _You may go, Crowley_.” And the _voice_ echoed again, and Crowley immediately snapped his fingers and fled.

* * *

When the demon was gone, Lucifer released his death grip on the arms of his throne, breathing shallow.

“Damn,” he said, to no one in particular.

He hadn’t felt like this since the fourteenth century. Which, to put it mildly, was not good. The king squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the visions. They had been dancing merrily in front of Crowley, making it difficult to concentrate on his subject. Fire, war, and dozens of other images, flashing repeatedly before his eyes. Was it the future, or the past? He could never be sure. Interspersed throughout, a sequence of pictures: the great eye of a dragon, snapping open in fury.

Lucifer stood, walking down the steps and towards his office down a hallway. For a moment there, he had _known_. Although what exactly he had known, he wasn’t completely sure. Something to do with Crowley, and that unfortunate angel.

Love?

He paused in his walk, and chuckled.

 _Nah. Couldn’t be that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh great, Lucifer has no clue what just happened either. And neither does the author! Just kidding, I know exactly what’s going on. Sort of.


	7. To Give A Flying Dutchman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well would you look at that. The update finally happened. I really have no excuse, besides malicious procrastination. Whoops. Here you go.

_“Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?_  
 _Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse,_  
 _But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?”  
_ ~Book IV, Lines 66-68

Belial had been watching Crowley for the past several weeks with growing interest. At first, the other demon had simply been that one annoying person in your department who never did any real work and yet somehow still had a job. But gradually, Belial had begun to notice something. It was a rather important observation.

Crowley was acting weird.

And that was it. That was all Belial could figure out. The sleekly dressed, suave-looking man would waltz around the flat like Lucifer himself, threatening his houseplants and shooting Belial dark looks as if he was next on the list. Except when that angel called. And he called often now, more than usual from what the demon had gathered from Crowley’s random mutterings to himself. Things were quiet for the moment between angels and demons, but that was no reason for _the same one who had broken into Hell_ to go around chatting up a demon. It was _weird_.

There was a change in tone whenever Crowley picked up the phone and heard the angel’s voice on the other end. It became softer, a touch excited, and even slightly nervous. On a certain level, it was quite funny, and Belial looked forward to the inevitable call simply for the entertainment.

He didn’t have to wait long that morning.

“Ah, hello, Aziraphale,” Crowley purred into the receiver, voice echoing softly to the demon’s ears from the other room.

“….Mmmmm? Well, you know I love the Ritz, angel, but I was thinking perhaps this little place just out of town—”

Belial gave Crowley’s general direction a disgusted look. He was being damn _affectionate_ to the creature. And he had a feeling that the other wasn’t trying to lure this Aziraphale to a quiet place and discorporate the nuisance. Not that Belial would do that either. Maybe Dagon or Lucifer would, if they could be bothered, but Belial didn’t feel like the angel really needed to be killed. It was just that this whole situation between the two was…

“Oh, please, _dear_ ,” there was a strange thrill to Crowley’s voice as he emphasized the last word, “it’s decorated with bookshelves and tartan, you’ll love it.”

…loving.

Belial sat very still, waiting until Crowley had walked by multiple times, communicated a vague “I’m off” to his fellow demon, and securely closed the door behind him. And then he vanished, leaving behind a sulfuric cloud which quickly dissipated.

* * *

“My Lord, Crawly is in love with an angel,” were the first words out of his mouth as he kneeled before the throne. Lucifer didn’t show any sign of surprise, but he did tilt his head curiously to the side, as if the sentence had confirmed a passing thought. Belial did not dare make eye contact with the king, focusing instead on the sharp horns of his crown.

“The little spy that slipped the barriers.” Lucifer stroked the black wood of his throne, thinking in silence. Belial recognized the distant expression on the king’s face; he was communicating with someone mentally. The only question was _who_. Small flickers of emotion dashed for cover, briefly giving away glimpses into the mind of the Devil. A hint of anger, frustration, annoyance, each just a slight difference of tightened muscles…Belial found himself hypnotized, now staring directly into those aged red eyes. So trapped was he in the quiet presence of so much power that he almost missed it—

— _worrypainfear_ —

—and they vanished so quickly that he wondered if those were emotions he had merely imagined.

Lucifer’s eyes suddenly sharpened their focus, and Belial’s mouth ran dry. He immediately dropped his eyes to the floor, waiting for punishment. But the king didn’t seem inclined to reproach his subject’s disrespect, something that confused Belial. How many times had he been told about Lucifer’s unpredictable temper that could be inflamed by someone so much as looking at him too long? About the demons he had personally destroyed in fits of petty rage? The king almost seemed _too_ calm, which Belial found even more unsettling. He almost regretted coming down here to announce the problem—Crowley wasn’t bad company, and Belial _had_ stuck his neck out for him—but this new development was worrying. It could mean disaster for Hell if Heaven managed a full-scale invasion, which was apparently what they were planning.

“You’re right to worry,” Lucifer said. Belial shuddered at how perfectly the sentence fit into what he had been thinking, even though the king was probably just continuing from what he had said before. “In any case, you should return to the human world, although I’d advise picking your own place to stay this time. Crowley may get suspicious of your intentions otherwise.”

“I will do that, my Lord,” Belial intoned.

Lucifer smiled down at him, and said in a completely different voice, _“We wouldn’t want him to know we’re coming.”_

* * *

Again, Lucifer had to shake himself out of his distraction once the demon left. There hadn’t been any visions this time, but finally he recognized the source of the problem.

(As Crowley had said once, what seems like a long time ago now, Lucifer and Satan are both names for the same person. This was incorrect. They just share the same body.)

In the silence of the throne room, Lucifer scowled and started issuing a reproach to the air. “Look, _you_ stay out of this. I don’t know what exactly you told Crowley when you summoned him down here or what you saw, but this needs to stop. You’re toeing the line of our agreement, which might I remind you says explicitly…”

He trailed off, eyes unfocused, listening to a reply only he could hear. For a moment, there was a peaceful quiet over his face, but suddenly it clouded with anger and a snarl exploded from the demon king’s throat.

“I don’t care about the fact that he’s in _love_ with the angel, I care that you’re trying to take matters into your own hands again! I don’t give a flying f—”

Once again, Lucifer stopped short. “Actually,” he said slowly, changing moods drastically. “I do. Thank you for ensuring that fact with your actions.” A smirk twisted across his face in answer to the howl of anger that echoed inside his mind. “This could be fun to watch. And the two of them just might teach Heaven a lesson.”

With that, something was agreed upon between the two entities. When they spoke, it was with the cold, echoing voice of two minds speaking from the same source. _“We will prove something to the angels.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah. I’m not a fan of this chapter. It took too long to write so I think I kind of lost some original piece of the starting thought process, but it just really needed to be done and gone so I could keep going. Anyway, I promised you guys I wasn’t abandoning it, so here you go! I’m finally getting to the original scenario which prompted the whole idea for the story.


	8. Bookshelves and Tartan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes. Another update. Enjoy this particular POV while it lasts! Time frame is literally minutes after Belial leaves the throne room, and Crowley is on his way to his date with Aziraphale.

_“Thoughts that voluntary move_  
 _Harmonious numbers.”_  
~Book III, Line 37

Close observers of the London train system that day might have noticed something odd, had they not been human and therefore blind. This odd occurrence was the arrival of a train. The sleek, black shell was a match to other examples of the vehicle in neither color nor style. Like a serpent, it slithered into the station in complete silence, ejected a single passenger, and vanished. The humans scuttling around merely looked at their watches in irritation because the train that was supposed to have arrived by now was a few minutes late.

The passenger was perfectly ordinary—

_Ha_.

—, dressed in a dull-colored suit which instantly made him unnoticeable, a part of the background.

“What exactly is it that you find so funny?” he muttered under his breath.

_Humans. So ignorant_.

The man glanced around at the crowd, full of nonbelievers and people who believed that Hell was somewhere underneath their feet. “I have to agree with you there.”

Like any good businessman, he carried a completely empty briefcase. Wire-framed glasses, for the Clark Kent theory of disguise. Some blemishes on his face, carefully applied with stage makeup. Short hair, messily and quickly cut and styled. Bookish, perhaps a secretary or accountant.

From the mind of a woman walking by, he deciphered this: oh, a person walking by. Lots of people. That person—oh, a person. I wonder where that person’s going. Meeting, 2:30 sharp. Plenty of time to catch lunch—oh, a person.

That’s how thoughts were, jumping around in an almost incoherent pattern only decipherable to the thinker. Some people thought in images, sounds, smells—those were more difficult. Some people thought in words and neat, ordered sentences—the easiest, the most ignorant of all humans. Those people often liked to think that their thoughts _weren’t_ organized like a book (however much the book resembled James Joyce’s writing), because that made them different somehow. Set them apart. The man still didn’t know why they did this, and he was fairly certain neither did they.

The most important fact, in this case, was that his appearance had not truly been noticed by the woman; the man was simply another person in the crowd. Perfect.

_…so then I said “look, kid, what part of ‘seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns upon its heads’ do you not understand?” And he gave me this rude look and…_

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the other voice rambled on, much like having a song stuck in your head. The man ignored it, and kept walking.

The lunch break rush was not the ideal time for one human to try and find another in a big city without knowing exactly where the other was. For one powerful demon to find a significantly less powerful and infinitely less important demon, however, the city could have been empty of all other souls.

_Lucifer, are you even listening to me?_

“No,” the man answered, loudly enough to make a few passersby turn their heads curiously to look at him. _Mind your own damn business_ , the voice snarled at them, as if the humans could hear.

Such comments were commonplace for the dark god. Satan was childish, most of the time acting like a weirdly rude and obnoxious pet. Lucifer had always chuckled at the sight of religious paintings and carvings (which have been lost to the ages in the present day, almost as if they never existed in the first place) that portrayed him with a sinister-looking dragon wrapped around his shoulders, whispering lecherous orders in his ear. Which actually wasn’t that far from the truth, all things considered.

At any rate, Lucifer had learned to tune out the incessant speech, preferring to spend his time in the human world without attracting too much attention.

_Bleheheheehehee—_

“Shut UP,” Lucifer growled. Everyone around him suddenly decided to walk a little faster, giving him a bit more personal space.

It had been a while since his last trip, not counting randomly popping in to Crowley’s flat and the restaurant.

Lucifer shook his head, annoyed at how easily Satan was getting to him. The dark god was just mad because of the decision Lucifer had made to thwart whatever he was trying to plan from the sideline. This little outing was the first step of the counter-plan.

Lucifer really wished it hadn’t involved a haircut.

* * *

Crowley hadn’t been very hard to find. Aura of demonic darkness aside, the black 1920s Bentley entertaining a small hoard of police cars was somewhat difficult to miss. As was the suddenly universal engine trouble that hit each and every pursuer. Police officers quickly got out of their vehicles to open the hoods in confusion. Lucifer walked past the lot of them, mild curiosity on his face. Oh, so _that_ was his tactic. Not what _he_ would do to the engines, but it had a certain personal touch.

The small restaurant, tucked away on a little highway stop-off, took more effort to find. The demon king refused to drive or take a cab, on the grounds that Satan would pick that moment to try something. There hadn’t been a word out of the darkest corner of his mind in a while, which Lucifer knew meant he had either fallen asleep or gotten dangerously bored.

Even running at a respectably supernatural pace, following the Bentley as it took unexpectedly sharp turns was more difficult than Lucifer had anticipated, meaning that Lucifer was two blocks ahead and too late to see what direction the car had gone by the time he realized it had whipped around yet another corner. Eventually, however, Lucifer picked up the trail and found himself outside a restaurant he would definitely put on the list to visit again.

It was quiet, out of the way, and warm. Inside, the building was mostly a library, with round tables and tiny two-person booths scattered around the shelves. The only downside was the tartan patterning _everywhere_ , which Lucifer was firmly ignoring. Crowley was sitting in a booth near the back, and Lucifer quietly requested a round table.

He noticed that the other demon quickly looked up when he caught sight of the new arrival, but looked back down at his menu soon after, disinterested. With all the grace of a human, Lucifer took his seat, and tried not to prop up his own menu in front of his face too much.

* * *

The door swung open, and the angel walked in. Aziraphale gave a hesitant glance around, as if scanning the room for Crowley, but Lucifer cautiously took a sip of his drink, silently cursing the thick dark aura hanging around the general vicinity of table 3.

Clearly, Aziraphale decided Crowley was the one emitting the glow of power, and trotted over to the booth to sit across from his…friend.

Lucifer tried not to stare.

It was hard.

“…dear, why didn’t you tell me about this place _sooner?_ ” Aziraphale was saying, gazing around in wonder. “I mean, really, it’s like someone built it specifically to make me happy.”

“Ineffability?” Crowley said.

“You know He doesn’t play favorites,” Aziraphale said, but despite the lecturing slant of his eyebrows, he seemed rather pleased by the suggestion.

Lucifer’s order arrived, something vaguely fitting into the realm of brunch, and he began to eat at a slow and sedate pace.

_Like a sloth!_ Oh, good. The resident incarnation of evil had started up again. At least Lucifer could relax a bit now that he had heard from the other entity.

“………any word on the, er, home front?”

Ah, now that was something interesting. Did the two of them really just discuss the business of Heaven and Hell out in the open like this all the time?

_It’s worth taking a note of_ , the voice noted, clear and lucid. Lucifer wasn’t sure whose thought that had been. _We can’t have him springing information leaks all over the place._

“No,” Aziraphale answered. “Everything seems a little too quiet, to be honest. I thought for sure someone would contact me and at least complain…” The angel trailed off. Lucifer couldn’t see the expression on his face from this angle, but Crowley nodded in return, muttering a reply of “same.”

As the conversation progressed, Lucifer realized that they seemed to have a limit to what they could tell each other. The two beings talked in circuitous routes, dancing around the touchy subject of war between Heaven and Hell with a practice that seemed a little easier than a few weeks or months—or centuries—could really provide.

Then there was the rest of it. The little hand gestures the two gave each other. The eye contact that lingered perhaps a little longer than it should, at least on the Crowley side of the table. And—

— _he did_ not _just_ …

Oh no, he _did_.

Crowley was eating food off of Aziraphale’s plate. The angel didn’t seem to care, so Lucifer bewilderedly figured that this was a common occurrence—

— _aaaaand there goes the other one_. Aziraphale had helped himself to a shrimp out of Crowley’s lunch.

At first, Lucifer was having some difficulty trying not to laugh, and eventually faked a choke on a piece of bread when that failed.

Those two.

They really were something.

It was…

...honestly rather adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even the Devil ships it. A nice 1500-word chapter for you this time. Hopefully the next one won’t be so long it coming, but don’t quote me on that. I had fun writing this one all from Luci’s perspective, so hope you liked it!


	9. Talk About Your Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! You guys deserve another update for sticking out the long waits between the last three chapters.

_“Freely we serve,_  
 _Because we freely love, as in our will_  
 _To love or not; in this we stand or fall.”  
_ ~Book V, Lines 538-540

When Crowley returned to his flat, he started up a grumbling complaint at Belial, as usual, before he realized that the other demon was nowhere to be found. Normally, Crowley would have thought the sudden disappearance was a bad sign. But with all that had happened to him recently, it didn’t have the same effect.

And really, Belial being gone was just what Crowley needed. The demon wandered over to his leather couch and collapsed onto it with a groan. It was getting worse. His mind was filled with that one emotion, all thoughts veering off of their paths and pointing towards Aziraphale. He wanted to be near the angel, watch the fascinating way Aziraphale’s eyes lit up when he got to talking about something he found interesting. He wanted to drive the Bentley, but not alone. Crowley had felt a certain level of comfort in those hectic days of the not-Apocalypse when the angel was sitting in the passenger seat worrying about his reckless driving.

He imagined that he could sense Aziraphale’s presence (pure fancy, of course), imagined him sitting hunched over the little counter in his bookshop, dusty old tome in hand and hot cocoa within arm’s reach a safe distance away from the fragile pages. Did the angel listen to music at all? Crowley suddenly realized that he didn’t know.

He also suddenly realized that his thoughts were taking a worryingly obsessive turn, so the demon firmly stood up, walked over to the cassette player, and shoved a random tape from his car in there. Maybe some Best of Queen would clash enough and distract him from these thoughts.

Several seconds after sitting back down, Crowley discovered that apparently this particular tape had not yet made the transformation into Freddie Mercury. A woman’s voice rolled gently out of the speakers. It was soothing, Crowley decided, but it was also a love song and that really wouldn’t help.

“ _…there were angels dining at the Ritz,_ ” the woman sang, and Crowley froze with his finger on the STOP button. Horror washed over him. Surely he had misheard that line. Frantically, he punched buttons to rewind the tape and the song started again: “ _That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air; there were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang_ …” Crowley couldn’t move. It had to be a—a figure of speech, a metaphor, a coincidence.

“ _…how could he know we two were so in love—_ ”

_HELLO? HELLO? AM I USING THIS THING RIGHT?_

The infernal interruption made Crowley jump, but for once he was kind of grateful. Anything to get away from the actual words of that song.

_THIS IS LUCIFER SPEAKING._

Except that.

“My Lord?” Crowley said nervously, although at this point he didn’t know why he was surprised. The king had taken a bizarre liking to him, if it could be called that.

_YES. HELLO. ER. HOW ARE YOU FEELING, CROWLEY?_

“…Fine?” The word was cautious, heavy with suspicion. The Devil had not contacted him to make small talk.

_THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT. HOW ARE YOU FEELING, ER…ABOUT PEOPLE?_

Now Crowley was just confused. “I’m…sorry, my Lord I don’t quite understand—”

_THE ANGEL. HOW ARE YOU FEELING ABOUT THE ANGEL._

Oh no. “Er. I…he’s a friend. Sorry. I know I really shouldn’t—”

_YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH HIM, CORRECT?_

“—be associating with messengers of Go _YAAAaooooooooooohshit_.”

_I’LL TAKE THAT AS A YES._

“NO!” Crowley yelled. “Nonononononono please don’t, no really, I was just surprised, what on Earth would lead you to suggest—”

_OH, I’M NOT MAD. I’M GOING TO HELP YOU WIN HIM OVER._

“—such a…ridiculous…what?”

“ _…that night in Berkeley Square,_ ” the song finished.

“Shit,” Crowley said, and then screamed on cue as Lucifer appeared in his flat. Again.

The king was hovering in the air above the TV in a seated position, legs crossed. “You heard me. This could be the solution to stopping the angels from carrying out their plans.”

“Er?” Crowley squeaked.

“If an angel and a demon truly fell in love, it would be revolutionary,” Lucifer explained patiently, his tone that of a long-suffering parent, “and the Archangels might call off their attack.”

Crowley did not like where this was going. “Or they might send all their forces to kill Aziraphale and me, and then carry on to Hell. I really wouldn’t trust me with the fate of Hell’s future. Sir.”

“Yes. I suppose that’s a possibility.”

Crowley was not any more comforted by the dismissive way Lucifer stated those words.

“But—” The Devil held up one finger and smiled. It was not a nice smile. “It is only one possibility. Million to one chances, hm? You two were brave enough to stand between Heaven and Hell once before. What is so different about standing against Heaven alone?”

Crowley actually _had_ an answer, but of course he wasn’t going to _say_ it. How could he explain that he was terrified of losing Aziraphale, that now that he knew he loved the angel it was that much harder to stand him being in danger? He wanted all of eternity to be with Aziraphale, to walk by his side down the sidewalk, to eat dinner in the Ritz with him every night. If the two of them stood against Heaven again, there was a chance, a _huge_ chance, that the future Crowley imagined would simply evaporate, and even if both of them died it still wouldn’t be _fair_ , he would be so _angry_ at the cruelty of it all, and a demon like Lucifer, who had never known love, couldn’t possibly understand that.

“That’s enough of that,” Lucifer said in a quiet voice, and Crowley couldn’t help but notice that there was an oddly fragile edge to it.

“You can…read my thoughts, sir?”

Lucifer ignored the question, and continued, “Do you truly think the Antichrist was born out of spite? That the Apocalypse was something I ever wanted?”

Crowley looked up in wonder from where he had been cringing away from the terrifying idea of Lucifer knowing everything that had ever passed through his head. “…my Lord?”

“There was a reason I picked you, Crowley. There was a reason Sister Mary Loquacious happened to be the one you handed my son to at that hospital.”

“But—all of the other demons! Everything we had been told since Revelation was written!” Crowley stammered.

Lucifer’s face soured, nose wrinkling. “When those orders were given I was…not my usual self. I could only combat the damage he’d done with some last-minute scrambling.”

“Who, sir?” Crowley was curious. For a minute, he thought Lucifer had been referring to someone else.

The king flashed a quick, drop-the-subject- _now_ smile, and said, “No one.”

“M’kay.”

“Now, back to my original topic. How you’re going to win Aziraphale’s heart.”

“Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song mentioned is, of course, "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square."


	10. Cocoa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.

_“Yet from those flames_  
 _No light, but rather darkness visible.”_  
~Book I, Lines 62-63

As he expected, Lucifer’s plan seemed perfectly calculated to cause as much embarrassment as possible for Crowley.

“Ah, yes, Aziraphale?” He tried not to think about the possibility of Lucifer watching the proceedings when he picked up the phone and called his angel. “Hm? Oh, nothing really. I just…wanted to talk to you. Could you come over to my place, then?”

Lucifer’s plan had also not consisted of much else beyond “talk to him.” And yet, above all else, the Father of Lies had managed to instill in Crowley the importance of _honesty_ when talking to Aziraphale. Even to the point of explaining Lucifer’s own involvement in the situation. It was true that Crowley wanted to talk to Aziraphale, desperately so, but he hadn’t actually figured out a topic yet.

When the angel arrived, Crowley found that he had to struggle to keep delight off of his face when the smell of old books meandered into the room. Aziraphale didn’t visit Crowley’s flat as often as they met at the bookstore, and he almost looked out of place amidst the sleek modern angles and shiny leather.

Crowley gestured over to the sofa before he collapsed onto it himself.

“I must admit, it’s nice to see you not looking like something a hellhound dragged in,” Aziraphale said in a small voice, not moving an inch.

It took Crowley a moment to remember what sight had greeted the angel the last time he had been in the flat—and Crowley found his conversation topic. The demon swallowed and curled into a ball on the cushion, making a sound remarkably similar to a certain legless animal performing the same action. “Please come in, Aziraphale.”

The angel complied, although his steps were light and made no noise on the cool tiles. “You said you wanted to talk to me?”

All thought of Lucifer had fled Crowley’s mind. At that moment, nervous heartbeats powered his body. Something else had awoken in his mind at almost the same time as his love for Aziraphale, the ancient, fierce _pull_ of some creature dragging its prey into the darkness. It had almost drowned when confronted with love. Almost.

“I’ve got drinksss,” Crowley muttered and scrambled from his seat to fetch a bottle, but only one glass. Aziraphale apparently heard the strange note in his friend’s voice and sat up straight, keeping an eye on Crowley as he returned to the couch.

 

* * *

 

A considerable amount of alcohol later, Crowley was clinging to a pillow, eyes squeezed shut and voice surprisingly lucid. “Those new orders, they’ve stopped for now,” he said. “I don’t have to…I was devouring souls, Aziraphale. I don’t have to do that anymore. At least not right now.”

The angel hesitantly reached out a hand, but froze at those words. “Your side is staying quiet now, as well? How long will it last?”

“That’ssss not the _point_ ,” Crowley growled. “I _was_ devouring souls, but now I’m _not_.”

“I never said you were doing anything wrong, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. The angel couldn’t quite manage the gentle voice he was probably trying for—his morals wouldn’t let him. “If…if you have to follow their orders, well…”

“Not the point,” the demon insisted. “I was devouring souls, but now I’m _NOT_ , and…”

There was a whine in the sentence, like that of a child whose favorite toy had been taken away. Crowley’s eyes flashed open, searing yellow flames emitting a light which burned straight through his sunglasses. The demon glared at the angel, whose form wavered a bit thanks to the alcohol. “I want _more_ , I want blood on my tongue and screams clinging to my hair, I want to drink hope and joy and tears and love, I want to rip all those happy little couples in the park apart, I want their happiness, I want…” _I want the ease with which they announce their love to each other_ , but all that came out of Crowley’s mouth was, “I want…help me.”

He expected the angel to run, to fly back to his bookstore, to remember that his best friend was a monster and agent of Hell. And the angel left.

“You’re my friend, Crowley,” said a voice a few hours later. “You…you told me to help you—” Aziraphale was stressed, uncertain how exactly to handle this version of Crowley, “—so here. Maybe this can…I don’t know. I tracked down two of your wants, or an approximation of them, at least.”

A commotion started up around the television as the angel wrestled with technology. After a few curse word substitutes and a long stretch of silence, the soundtrack to a horror movie started playing, and Crowley, who was coming back to sobriety with the sinking understanding that he had said far too much, struggled into a respectable sitting position in confusion. “What are you doing?”

Aziraphale stopped in the process of opening a small box marked with a hospital’s biohazard symbol. “You’re my friend,” he said. The angel pointed to the horror movie. “You said you wanted screams, and…” Aziraphale lifted a vacuum-sealed package of red liquid out of the box and held it out to Crowley, his blue eyes tight and disturbingly watery.

Crowley curled right back into a ball, tucking his head down to stop himself from doing something he would regret, like stumbling across the room and kissing Aziraphale on the mouth. A distracted thought noted that the regret would probably arrive late to that particular party. The demonic nature in him could smell the blood straight through the plastic, and Crowley grabbed the pillow again and bit down on it when he realized that he was making a keening noise in anticipation.

Aziraphale settled onto the edge of the leather seat and held the package out to Crowley without looking in his direction. Crowley, for his part, tried not to grab the offering too greedily before he ripped it open with his teeth and slurped at the contents.

“At least this way, it seems like you’re a vampire instead of a demon, dear.” Aziraphale gave a shaky laugh. “And I’m the hapless human friend. No…impending possibility of war between Heaven and Hell to worry about for the moment, hm?”

“ ‘S probably blasphemy or ssssomething for you to talk like that, Aziraphale.”

“I’m more worried about the hospital. You don’t think they’ll run out of the rest of their transfusion resources, do you? I only took three, and of course you know I left an equivalent amount of money, but money can’t buy a human life, you know…”

Crowley smiled as the angel rambled on, making the situation almost normal. Somewhere he had found the time to make himself a cup of cocoa (or maybe a miracle had deposited it into Aziraphale’s grip), and although his hands trembled and he still wasn’t looking at Crowley, the angel was still _there_ for him.

A touch of magic wiped away all traces of blood from Crowley’s mouth and clothing, and Aziraphale finally turned to face him. Crowley could see the yellow of his eyes reflected in Aziraphale’s blue, and he relaxed as his sunglasses started to obscure more and more of the unholy fire.

“Thank you,” he said, after the two of them sat there and stared at each other in silence for a while (excepting the dying screams of the man on the television. Turns out the new house _didn’t_ end up being a good change for their family).

“You’re my friend,” Aziraphale repeated, and this time his voice had returned to its comforting solidity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s not the chapter I thought that was going to be. So sorry, I fully intended to get to a much fluffier and hilarious part (the moment which originally inspired the entire story). I don’t even know why the chapter’s called Cocoa, tbh. 
> 
> Sorry again about the long chapter wait as well, but here you go!


	11. An Extra Duck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops. also that last chapter was a little weird idk how I feel about it kinda meh I suppose

_“Abashed the Devil stood,_  
_And felt how awful goodness is, and saw_  
_Virtue in her shape how lovely._  
_—saw, and pined his loss.”_  
~Book IV, Lines 846-848

A headache burned in Crowley’s temples, probably due to the amount of alcohol he had imbibed the previous evening. Or it was the stress of his new situation. Dancing around both Aziraphale and Lucifer, for vastly different reasons, was taking its toll. The failed date resulting in a horror movie and Crowley’s more diabolic nature had thankfully been pushed to the side. The angel understood that Crowley didn’t want to talk about it, as he hadn’t wanted to talk after the Inquisition, and so their routine returned to duck ponds and Ritz dinners. Meanwhile, Lucifer appeared terrifyingly enthusiastic about ensuring the success of their relationship, more so than could reasonably be explained by “proving a point to Heaven.” It made Crowley twitch just thinking about the king’s interest in a ground-crawling demon like himself. Most demons agreed that bad events had a habit of occurring whenever Lucifer let himself get involved in something on Earth, so Crowley was vaguely expecting a seven-headed dragon to show up any day now.

But this morning, he wasted a full half hour blinking at himself in the mirror and smoothing invisible wrinkles out of his black suit. A close observer would have noticed that he also wasn’t breathing, and his snakeskin shoes were starting to look less and less like they weren’t actually his feet. Crowley was going to _tell_ Aziraphale. Otherwise, this ridiculous emotion would just get worse. Already, the simple awareness of the angel’s existence wasn’t quite enough. Now a voice on the edge of his consciousness insisted that Aziraphale had to _know_ , too.

Crowley wheeled on a houseplant and gave it the Shadwell Point. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about your leaf blight, my friend.”

The plant made a distressed _twang_ noise, and vanished.

“Right.” The demon straightened his cuffs one more time (twice more. it couldn’t hurt) and marched out the door of his flat. Since demons did not do human things like forget their car keys in the house and have to scurry back for them after an embarrassingly long pause of staring at their car in confusion, the keys appeared in Crowley’s hand as he approached the Bentley.

 

* * *

 

St James’ Park was bustling with its usual crowd of people in suspicious coats and stereotypical hats. Ducks streaked across the lake, homing in on each new arrival with alarming speed. Crowley stopped for a moment after he got out of his car and walked a little ways over the grass. Something about the scene gave him a twinge of unease, but he chalked it up to stress once again.

Aziraphale was waiting for him on a bench, humble in a faded coat and tartan sweater. Crowley eased into the seat beside him. Several of the closest other people in the park seemed to sense what was going on, and casually moved farther away to give them some space.

“Morning, dear,” Aziraphale said.

“Gmrgn, angl.” Crowley was off to a promising start.

“Er. That troublesome child isn’t giving you too much trouble, I hope?” In Aziraphale’s mind, Lucifer was still a curly-haired fledgling chasing a herd of wildebeest down Heaven’s main street.

“Um, well, my Lord is. Well. Eyes and ears everywhere, youknowhowitis. He’s…backed off my case some, I guess?” That was broadly true. The king hadn’t contacted Crowley for a whole week, allowing him to work out the aftermath of his botched date.

“Good, good.” Was it Crowley’s imagination, or did _Aziraphale_ seem almost as nervous? Whatever the angel was dealing with on Heaven’s end, Crowley really hoped tensions between their respective sides weren’t flaring up again.

“I have something I need to tell you,” Crowley said. “I…I have been feeling, er, strange of late, and thou hasssst a reasson to know…”

“Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale sat up straight. “What’s wrong? You’ve slipped into _old_ speech.”

Crowley’s shoes were pointier than ever, and it may have been the dark shadows beneath the bench combined with the sleek black of his pants, but the points of his shoes looked almost like two halves of a tail. When he spoke, his accent was from somewhere that truly represented North on the compass as Up. “Thou art my friend, I should ssstart there. And—”

Abruptly, the lyrical, archaic speech screeched to halt and reversed right back into modern times. “Oh, _damn that bastard_.”

“What? What?”

“There’s an extra duck.”

“ _What?_ ”

Crowley pointed to the offensive waterfowl in question, finger trembling. “ _There’s an extra duck_.”

The duck, a mallard currently disdaining the stale black breadcrumbs of a man trying to pass as “not a spy,” blended with the rest of the group perfectly. But Crowley _knew_.

Aziraphale’s head swung around in bewilderment, but saw no more ducks than the usual. He patted Crowley on the arm in an attempt to get the flustered demon to calm down. “My dear, pay no attention to the ducks, just say what you were going to before this mess.”

“I need to tell you something really important and personal and I can’t do this if _He’s_ watching,” Crowley said.

The angel sighed. “I’ll humor you, Crowley.” He waved in the general direction of the duck, and it took off across the pond at an alarming speed, suddenly interested in a man standing on the opposite bank.

Crowley watched it go, for a moment wishing Aziraphale hadn’t interfered with the creature. His insides busied themselves with knot-tying. What, exactly, had his plan been? Just— _Aziraphale, I love you?_ He had hardly thought about how the angel might react, if he were to be honest with himself.

He took a deep breath and stood up, offering one arm to his friend. “Take a walk, just this once?”

Aziraphale stood as well, slowly taking the arm. He’d been around the demon long enough to know that something had to be seriously wrong or unusual for him to break routine, so Crowley only hoped they could make it to the edge of the park before the angel figured it out.

“…I think I can feel love again, Aziraphale.” This was how it started. “I haven’t felt it in such a long time, I’d almost forgotten it was real. Demons…demons do love each other, sometimes, but it’s rare. There were children everywhere in Heaven, but in Hell, it’s…there’s so few children, Aziraphale. There’s so few people walking together for the sake of walking together, there’s no _love_ , anymore, no…” Crowley struggled with the rest of the sentence, fingers clenching and unclenching the fabric of Aziraphale’s sweater, and finally gave up. “It’s Hell. Love was something forbidden and beyond our reach, or so I thought.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem to be pulling away, rather the opposite; he leaned against Crowley, head angled to catch every word. What was the sign that Crowley wasn’t deceiving himself? _‘and a demon like Lucifer, who had never known love, couldn’t possibly understand that._

_“That’s enough of that.” ’_ The memory came to Crowley at once, the odd tone in the king’s voice, implying that Crowley had no idea what he was talking about. If even Lucifer could fall in love, could trust in someone to not run screaming, what had he to be afraid of?

He considered his next sentence, and shrugged. “Aziraphale, I love you.” Guess that had been the plan.

They were at the entrance to the park, Crowley’s car parked (illegally, as always) right in front of it. He hadn’t looked at Aziraphale’s face, but as he unwound his arm from where it had been linked, the angel might have swayed on the spot in a sort of daze.

With an embarrassed sort of shuffle, Crowley hurried along to his car door, but not before a faint tap on his shoulder meant he had to stop and turn around and explain.

Aziraphale was much closer than he had expected, and surprise flashed across his features in silence. The angel kissed him, a soft breath across his lips, gone before it had time to register—

—returned, as Crowley drew Aziraphale back to him, awkwardly yanking on his arm since that was the first thing his hand hit. A soft keening rose in his throat, like the muffled scream of an angel Falling, crying out to everything it had lost. Somewhere in the process of his frantic attempts to understand and solidify the information that Aziraphale had well and truly kissed him first, Crowley had gotten the angel into a sort of headlock, and proceeded to run his lips up Aziraphale’s nose and into his hair.

Content, the demon sighed and relaxed his grip, although Aziraphale’s face was still squished against his shoulder and both of their backs bent at odd angles. One of the other people in the park was close enough to stop and give them a look of bemusement at their odd position.

Crowley coughed, and released Aziraphale. Both of them straightened. Crowley adjusted his tie haughtily, giving the passersby a glare, and Aziraphale smoothed down his sweater.

“Dinner at the Ritz as usual, then?” Aziraphale asked. Unlike the demon, he had listened to that song a long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, THAT is the idea I tried and failed to reach in the last chapter, basically a rewritten form of the original idea which inspired this.


End file.
